Past the bungalow that Sally-Palmer shared with Patriarcca.
Past two others, silent, empty.
If Eritrea was inside the lighted cottage, then a portion of Bolan's job was done. He could release the informer, see him safely to the outer wall, then resume his long night's work with one load lifted from his mind. He might be under guard, of course, and Bolan let the Uzi hang against his chest as he approached his destination, opting for the silenced 93-R in case he had to deal with rear-guard watchmen prematurely.
It was far too early yet for Bolan to announce his presence. Any killing done on Dave Eritrea's behalf would have to be the silent kind, at least until Bolan had his major targets ail together, in position for the slaughter.
Bolan finally emerged from midnight shadow, glancing each way before he moved into the light. The window shades were down, preventing his looking inside the bungalow, and something in the soldier's gut was gnawing at him, telling him that something was wrong somehow.
And still, he had no choice.
A flying kick above the flimsy lock propelled the thin door backward until it tore off its hinges. The warrior quickly entered, sleek Beretta leading, ready to accommodate all challengers.
The empty cottage mocked him with its silence.
Bolan swiftly closed the door behind him, checked the tiny bathroom and holstered the 93-R. It took a heartbeat for his eyes to find the handcuffs, empty now, still dangling from the cot positioned in a corner.
Eritrea was gone.
And Bolan knew he was too late.
Don Minelli was proceeding with his meeting on schedule, and he had the entertainment ready for his guests inside the mansion. It would require some time to check the other bungalows, but Bolan's instinct was telling him that he would find his other quarry — Flasher — in the manor house, as well.
The cannibals had gathered for their feast, and there would be no dearth of human appetizers on the menu. Unless another chef could unexpectedly interfere just long enough to make some alterations.
And the Executioner intended to supply a few hot dishes of his own.
He had already spent the day preparing appetites and setting party moods in Jersey, all around New York, and he did not intend to be excluded from final preparations for the bash. He might be short an invitation, but it was the thought that counted, after all... and Bolan's thoughts were bent on hell fire.
If Dave Eritrea and Sally Palmer were inside the mansion, he would have to get them clear before he brought the house down. Bill Rafferty might have an angle there... providing that he kept their date.
Bolan had the lawman pegged as a soldier of the same side. And the warrior needed help, the kind that Rafferty could provide. But any decision made by the captain was his own.
There could be no draftees in Bolan's holy war. The price of entry was commitment, sure.
Bill Rafferty would know that going in, and he would enter with his eyes wide open, or he would not come in at all.
It was the only way to fight a holy war.
The only way for holy warriors to survive.
Tonight, perhaps, it might be the only way to die.
Turning the lights off. Mack Bolan left the bungalow and moved toward the house.
* * *"So, Ducks, let's have the story, eh? What's eatin' Jules?"
The crew chief, Tommy Fiorini, shifted on the Lincoln's front seat to find a comfortable position for his ample backside. Never fond of traveling, he was uncomfortable here, in hostile territory, riding in a strange car through unfriendly darkness.
"Nothin' special," Fiorini told his wheelman, hoping that he might convince himself, as well. 'They had some kinda beef when he showed up, an' anyway, he wants a little show of force, tha's all."
But was it all?
Fiorini hadn't liked the tone of Patriarcca's voice when they had spoken on the telephone, and there had been the sense of something left unsaid, as if his capo feared there might be others listening on the line.
So what the hell else was new?
Somebody had been listening to the brotherhood now for as long as Fiorini could remember. Feds, the local cops, some blasted prosecutor or a senator's committee. Any time you needed headlines, or some new appropriations for the yearly budget, all you had to do was holler Mafia and leak some tapes to get exactly what you wanted from the purse-string boys.
In Fiorini's younger days, it had been different, though. There had been definite security in signing on with one of the established families, making your bones and taking the oath by candlelight, with your friends and family looking on.
It had begun to change back in the sixties when Kennedy was in the White House. Things had gone from bad to worse since then, despite some real good times along the way. Fiorini had picked up the nickname Ducks back in 1963, when he was busted and convicted on a contrived federal charge of exceeding his limit on killing migratory water fowl.